


Revolution and Paying the Rent

by Eleanor_jane (eleanor_jane)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, BAMF Porthos, Constance is the only one who has her life under control, F/M, Hurt Porthos, M/M, Portamis - Freeform, Porthos Whump, Protective Aramis, Puppy d'Artagnan, Romance, actor Aramis, actor Athos, actor Porthos, actor d'artagnan, constagnan, fighter Porthos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-25 21:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7547524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_jane/pseuds/Eleanor_jane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis' day had quickly turned from awful to this-might-just-be-the-lowest-moment-of-my-life awful. Then he gets a call from Treville telling him about a musical he could star in… when it gets funded, of course. Suddenly he's sleeping on Athos' sofa and cursing himself for falling for the gorgeous, scarred man playing opposite him.</p><p>It's just his luck that he chooses to fall in love with someone who turns up at the start of each day with a new bruise to add to his collection. But then again, maybe it isn't as unlucky as it could be.</p><p>This is the story of five unemployed actors trying to survive and create something worthwhile in London, falling in love, creating a family and maybe even getting their show to the West End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smoky pubs and Grindr dates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Keira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keira/gifts).



> This idea has been hanging around in my head forever, so I hope you enjoy it. This is a product of my obsession with musicals and Musketeers, so here goes.
> 
> These characters aren't mine.

It's amazing how quickly a morning can turn sour.

The day had started out relatively terribly as soon as he awoke: the heating had gone off during the night and through his hung over daze he could vaguely see his Grindr date sat playing on his phone with a bored expression. It had been fun last night, but as his date shuffled out all he had to show for it was a memory of his skin and a hairspray the man had apparently left behind.

Then, of course, Ms. Lockerby the landlady had called him down. She just 'needed the week's rent' and 'couldn't put up with the loud behaviour from last night again' and 'hadn't slept a wink' because of him, and when she stuck out her hand for the money he just didn't have it.

If it had been a more luxurious part of London, she would have been required to give him thirty day's notice. Here, she just told him to be gone by tomorrow or she'd called the police.

And thus, Aramis' terrible day turned into an awful one. He packed his dismal belongings into a big suitcase and left without a second look, onto the cold streets without a penny to his name or anywhere to stay the night.

This was not what he had imagined being an actor would be like.

His legs worked but his mind was numb. He had nowhere to stay. So he should be looking for a homeless shelter, or be desperately ringing his friends to plead for a place to stay. He was homeless. He was helpless.

With a sudden deafening intensity it dawned on him, how far he had sunk. He collapsed onto a bench in a bus shelter as it started to sleet, and let himself break. He cried and he sobbed and he buried his head in his shaking hands and he prayed. In the bus shelter in the middle of nowhere, with icy sleet hammering down around him, Aramis let himself shatter into a million tiny pieces. He had nothing, and couldn't summon the strength to call his friends and ask for help. He didn't want to, he couldn't beg and plead. Though his pride was wounded, he wouldn't sink that low.

At some point he stood up, and became a haggard figure walking the cold streets of London alone.

When Treville called, his mind was too miserable and hung over to pick up the words. Barely conscious of it, he spent his last few coins on a tube ticket and made his way to the outskirts of London. At some point it would have been the middle of an industrial revolution, and the huge warehouses would have churned out products. Workers marched their way in and out, a colony of ants going about their day-to-day business. It was a life Aramis had fought so hard to fight against, and had fought so hard to become an actor to rebel against. Look how far that got him. Now, though, it was desolate, each warehouse an empty chamber of musty air.

Treville waited in the entrance of one, nodding to him when he arrived. The warehouse was big and barren, with huge lights that lit up the ground like a football stadium. Aramis dropped his suitcase and buried his head in his hands, trying desperately to breathe and stop the threat of tears welling in his eyes. A weight sat down beside him, and he dumbly took the painkiller Athos offered him.

His friend looked terrible. He was unshaven, with bags under his eyes and his shoulders slumped forward like the weight on his shoulders had permanently made them that way. "You look terrible." Some days Aramis was subtle. Today was not one of those days.

"So do you." Athos looked up to the as yet silent Treville, a question already forming before he was cut off with a wave of a hand.

"I'm waiting for Constance."

"You don't have to wait anymore." The new voice from the door belonged to a beautiful redhead with a nice smile, one hand already firmly on her hip. He offered her a smile, but considering how terrible he looked it probably looked with ghostly than gorgeous. She smiled back anyway. "So why are we here?"

"I've written… something."

"Should we be worried?" Athos looked bad, but his voice was as smooth as ever.

"It's a musical. Set during the French revolution." That made even Aramis look up.

"You wrote a musical?" His voice sounded far too hoarse for eleven o'clock in the morning.

"Yes, I did. That's why I brought you here: this place belongs to a friend of mine. It's ours to rehearse in as long as we want it. The musical's about a group of four men, from all different backgrounds during the French revolution. They are totally inseparable, but during the revolution two choose to revolt and two choose to fight on the king's side." There was a silence.

"I don't suppose you want me to play one of the men?"

"No Constance. Sorry. If you all could read it… it wouldn't stop bugging me until I wrote it down. I want you in it." Constance nodded as Athos shrugged, and they each took the sheets of paper offered to them. Maybe this could be his way out. He desperately needed the cash for somewhere to stay, and work had been impossible to find.

"There's just one problem." God, his voice sounded hoarse. And it ached even worse than the rest of him did. "There are three people here. And considering the lovely Constance isn't playing one of the men, we're missing at least two." Treville nodded.

"I have struggled to find anyone who would agree to work without being paid. There's no money until we get somewhere to perform it and people buying tickets." That was that plan out of the window.

"Can we meet at the Crown's Horse tonight? So you can tell me what you think."

They nodded and shuffled out, Constance leading the way. Athos and Aramis must have looked like a few stray dogs behind her.

"What happened?"

"I ran out of money. Haven't paid the rent for a while now, and my landlady kicked me out. Haven't got anywhere to stay," He dragged a hand over his face, "and my date last night was more interested in his reflection than me. Other than that, I'm just great. You?"

Athos looked at him for a long time. "I'm trying to forget." He didn't need to specify what. It was the Thing Athos was running from, had been running from ever since they'd met on an acting job four years ago. Back then Aramis had been alive and full of enthusiasm, certain he was on the edge of something great. The years had done what they did best, and had passed by without a backwards glance.

"You managed yet?"

Athos looked at him for a long time as they neared the train station. "You can stay at mine for as long as you need to. You should have asked immediately. And if you will find all your dates on Grindr…" Aramis shot him a sharp glare, but he only smirked in return. They got on a train, and soon enough they were back at Athos' apartment.

The apartment was grey and worn, with plain walls and a single sofa with only three legs sat contently in the middle of the room. There were no paintings on the wall, though there were shadows where something might have hung once, and the cream carpet was stained occasionally with red stains that probably came out of a bottle. Athos had money, but you never would have guessed. The block itself stood stoutly, worn with time but not unpleasant. Glass skyscrapers touched the sky all around it, but Aramis had no doubt that this little building would probably be the last one standing. His mind drifted absently to some flowers maybe, and a new sofa in a bright colour. New curtains and a freshly painted kitchen would probably do the place a world of good.

For now though, Aramis dramatically collapsed on the sofa, and decided to sleep as long as he possibly could.

Unfortunately, the evening did come, and Athos forced Aramis to get into clean clothes before walking to the Crown's Horse. As they walked Athos recapped him on the play, and even seemed quite enthusiastic about it, which was especially rare for him. By the time they got there, Treville and Constance were already sat in the corner. As they got closer they saw another two people sat with them.

One was young and pretty, with long dark hair and a nervous look on his face. When they got closer he saw that the man was gripping his beer tightly, and was sitting as close to Constance as physically possibly. The other man was half in the shadows, and seemed the exact opposite of the other man. Broad and muscled, his toothy grin showed off his gorgeous jawline as he polished off his pint with another just beside it. He had a faint scar over his left eye, and a blackening bruise over his right. He was gorgeous. He was action movie, one liner fighter with something to prove kind of gorgeous. Crap.

They pulled up seats, and the pounding in his head started up again. The gorgeous one pushed over a pint to him with a grin. "There's no need." He said it weakly, but the man just chuckled.

"You look like you need it more than me." Was he flirting? He probably wasn't flirting. He was being nice was all. Aramis looks terrible, and he was being nice. (Or he could have been flirting.) It turned out Constance had read the play and immediately thought of her best friend – he didn't miss the envious look on Pretty Boy's face when she said it – and her lodger. They agreed to help, and here they were.

"Well, I read the play and I loved it. So count me in." Athos nodded in agreement, as did the other two men. Suddenly everyone was looking at him, and he tried not to choke on his beer when trying to reply.  
"Sure. I haven't got anything better to do." Treville nodded, and he had been anyone else he maybe would have smiled.

"Another drink?" Constance suggested, and Aramis looked at the ground. He could barely afford another pint.

"And it's Treville's round. Considering we're all working for free and all." Athos's words were a weight off his shoulders, and he finally relaxed.

When Treville returned he looked at the two new blokes for a long time. "So, what's your experience?"

He admitted he leant in slightly to listen into Gorgeous' answer. "I mainly do musicals, but I've been known to dabble in Shakespeare. I've done work in theatre before, and I got a scholarship to the King's School of Theatre and Music."

"Scholarships aren't easy to get." He sounded even more impressed than he'd planned to. "I'm still working off my debts."

"Yeah. They're not easy." Gorgeous was smug, but he made it look sexy.

They turned their gaze to Constance and d'Artagnan. "I've done work in the theatre before, and I've finished a stint as Fantine in Les Miserables. After you've done a production like that you want something that's totally different."

"Uh, I went to Yorkshire School of the Arts. Then I came here." There was a silence, and d'Artagnan stared down into his drink. Treville stood up heavily.

"I'm going to go and get another drink."

The pub smelt like old liquor and smoke, and the pretty waitress with smudged red lipstick kept visibly checking him out. Another day he would have pursued her, but Treville was talking about rehearsal and he needed some sleep if he was going to try to act, let alone sing, tomorrow. When he made his farewells – dimly realising he didn't know either Nervous or Gorgeous' names – the air outside was bitterly cold. The type that cut to your core and woke you up and put you to sleep all at once. He kept his head down as he walked back to Athos', and finally allowed himself to think.

He hadn't read the play. He didn't even know what he had signed up for. He knew Treville was a natural writer, and Athos a good critic, but that was all. There was no money coming in, and none for the foreseeable future, and tomorrow he would have to start to rehearse. But for once, there might actually be hope in his step.

When he arrived back at Athos' apartment, he settled down on the wine stained sofa and started to read. All he could hear were the whispers of the pages and the regular cars going past the grey apartment. Soon enough he was lost in the words in front of him, and the whispers of the words became a thunderous roar that wouldn't let him go. Characters swirled around his brain, and the songs Treville had messily inscribed came instantly to life. Athos' arrival went unnoticed as he read and read, so he didn't notice the slight smirk on the other man's lips. More hours ticked by, and when he finally finished it he lay down exhausted. Daring swordfights, chivalrous soldiers and a revolution made of blood and anger and bravery filled his dreams.


	2. Good Coffee and Good Friends

Considering how little he'd slept, Aramis felt almost chipper when he rolled out of bed. Rolled being the imperative, considering the three-legged sofa had tipped during the night and was at a noticeable slant when he opened his eyes. Despite suddenly becoming intimate with the carpet, he managed to rummage through Athos' cupboards and make breakfast. The supplies were dismal, but he was quite happy with what he'd created.

Athos, when he emerged from his room, was not so chipper. "What have you done?"

"I've made you breakfast. You're welcome."

"This isn't breakfast. This is a fried egg mixed with Weetabix. Separately, both have the potential to become breakfast. Together, they have become a monstrosity."

"You didn't have any milk. Or bread, for that matter. Pretty much all you had was two bars of Weetabix and three eggs, so I made do."

"What happened to the third egg?"

"I cracked it wrong, and it went everywhere. Luckily, it landed on an old recipe book and didn't hit the floor."

"Where's that book now?"

"In the bin." Athos took a deep breath, looking up at Aramis incredulously.

"Remind me why I invited you to stay in my house?"

"You love me." Athos just grumbled in reply, pouring his breakfast into the bin and opening the play. Aramis tasted his breakfast, recoiling at the slimy concoction in his bowl. Athos wasn't wrong. He had created a monstrosity. "Where did you say the shower was?"

"Aramis, there are four rooms in this apartment. I'm sure you'll be able to find it." Obviously Athos wasn't a morning person, so Aramis settled for practicing his lines extra loudly in the shower.

His character was called Arnaud Rodier, and could talk himself out of any situation. Arnaud was a good shot, and loved spending his time with ladies. A devout Catholic, Arnaud fought to protect the king during the French revolution, even though that meant fighting his friends.

There was a twist though. A twist that made Aramis grin, and meant he couldn't wait to sink his teeth into this character and play him to the best of his ability. Arnaud loved a character called LaRue with everything he had. But Arnaud Rodier was a man in a time when that kind of love was banned, and in the revolution LaRue was fighting on the opposite side. The climax was breath-taking and astounding, and Aramis knew with a sudden certainty that one day an audience would have to see this. One unfortunate thing would be if it were Athos that was playing LaRue. Aramis had kissed a lot of people, both when acting and not, but definitely didn't want to add his friend to that list.

When he had raided Athos' cupboards for supplies and washed all traces of dirt of him, he emerged. Athos was ready to go, and so he just towel dried his hair and set off. On the way to the train station Athos bought them both wraps, and they ate in silence waiting for their tube.

"I haven't acted in a while."

"You'll be fine."

"I might be rusty. What if I'm not good enough for Treville?" Athos didn't reply as they entered, and Aramis tried to take that as a good sign.

It quickly emerged that they were the first to arrive, which was a bit of a relief. Athos flicked on the lights, and the space lit up again. There was an old mop lying next to a dusty rug, and graffiti covered the floor and the walls. Alongside rude drawings and curse words in vibrant colours were declarations of love and hate, and the place couldn't have looked less like a stage. A tatty piano sat mournfully in the corner, yet something about the openness of the space reminded him of the little shows he'd put on as a kid, and made him feel like leaping around. He had just leapt into the air when he heard the door opening, and a faint chuckle coming from the entrance. Of course. It was Gorgeous, with Constance muffling giggles and Nervous awkwardly carrying a guitar shuffling in behind her. The three people he would be working with for the foreseeable future had just seen him leaping around like a little kid at a birthday party.

Gorgeous strode across the room towards him, offering out a hand. Shaking it, he could feel callouses on his skin and the strength in his grip. The bruise over his eye had blossomed into a blotch of purple, and looked painful. Just below his eyebrow, there was a small cut with two neat stitches, as if someone had punched him hard with a ring on.

"Sorry we're late, mate. Lost track of time." Gorgeous' voice had a cockney twang, but it was soft and deep. He was a Londoner, then.

"Well, d'Artagnan lost track of time, anyway." Constance added. That must be Nervous' name.

"It's fine. We haven't been here long. Aramis was just testing out the spring in the floorboards." Athos suddenly appeared behind them, and Aramis saw d'Artagnan jump and nearly drop the guitar. Gorgeous grinned again, and he wanted the ground to eat him up. Athos was doing this on purpose.

Thankfully, Treville chose that moment to stride through the door carrying a duffel bag. "The copy I gave you all was a first draft, and I'm going to refine it. But does anybody have anything to say?" Nobody did, it appeared. "Who wants to play who? Obviously, I wrote Rodier with Aramis in mind, but it's up to you."

"LaRue seems like the best choice. If no one has a problem with that." Oh crap. That was Gorgeous, looking at him with a glint in his eye. Wanting to play the part of Arnaud Rodier's forbidden lover. Wanted to play beside him in the climax of the play. And looking at him like he knew exactly what he was thinking.

"I'm happy to play Jean-Pierre."

"And I'll play Charles." That was d'Artagnan, with a confident voice despite his pale face and wide eyes.

Treville nodded, immediately adjusting the roles in his mind. "Okay then. It makes sense to begin at the beginning." He stepped aside, and unzipped the duffel bag. Inside five swords glinted at them, and as they picked them up they felt quite high quality. Not real, obviously, but not bad. He didn't know where Treville had got them, and didn't particularly want to know.

And so it began. Each scene would start out slowly, with them just reading their lines. Some words sounded clunky, some words smooth. Treville would alter his script, and then they'd read it again. The minutes turned into hours, and he learnt that Gorgeous' name was Porthos Du Vallon. He said it with a flourish, and his laugh was rumbling but infectious. Soon they would start with the choreography, working out their fight scenes so they didn't end of elbowing each other in the face. It was all going well, and they'd reached the part where d'Artagnan's character was pressed against some steps with three blades pointed at his face.

He wasn't quite sure how he managed it, but somehow d'Artagnan managed to slip and take out Athos' legs with his own, making them both hit the ground with an undignified crash. As d'Artagnan hurriedly apologised from somewhere in the mass of tangled limbs, Aramis made the mistake of meeting Porthos' eye.

They managed to act professional for a grand total of about ten seconds, before they both burst out laughing. D'Artagnan tried to get up, slipped on his own jacket and hit the floor again, which prompted more laughter. He couldn't breathe through laughing, only his clinging onto Porthos keeping him upright. Athos tried to look menacing, but had no effect. It was like being a little kid all over again. Treville glared at the two of them, eventually sending them off to calm down. Aramis succeeded in stopping laughing right until he caught sight of Porthos again, and then the gasping pained laugh started again and he could barely walk.

Calming down as best they could, they stood outside. "I feel like a kid whose been sent out by the teacher." Porthos said, and Aramis had to fight the giggles from coming back.

That day, as it turned out, was the start of something. The friendship grew and grew between the five of them, though Treville isolated himself with walls made of his huge coffees and the crossed out drafts of his play, which changed each and every day. They started early in the morning until seven o'clock, when Porthos made his excuses. Soon enough they fell into a certain rhythm, and the depression of not three weeks ago fell away from Aramis' mind.

Yes, it wasn't perfect. Athos drank a lot and didn't sleep enough, and grew annoyed when Aramis fussed. Porthos kept arriving with various bruises on his face, and would grow stony and cold when anyone mentioned them. They all had something to hide, it turned out. Nobody questioned Aramis' long sleeves on the sunniest days, or the amount Athos had to drink. D'Artagnan hid his past away as effectively as Constance did, and the one time Aramis enquired about the scar on Porthos' face the man had walked out without a backwards glance. They all had something to hide, and so the others let them.

D'Artagnan applied for a job as a barista, and out on a limb Aramis applied with him. Though he was much more of a natural that d'Artagnan – while he was creating espresso artistry d'Artagnan was still learning how to froth milk - that meant at least they had some kind of income. Constance wrote anecdotes for the papers, and Treville tirelessly toiled on his play, that he had yet to name. D'Artagnan grew in confidence the more he got to know them, and they could see the raw talent as he acted. Constance beamed with pride, and Porthos has taken to clapping him on the back whenever he nailed his lines.

At last, it felt like they were kind of getting there.

Treville had a very strict schedule while he was finishing the play. This meant that they had been rehearsing for nearly six weeks before Treville announced they would start at last tackling the musical numbers. Some songs had stayed the same, while others had evolved into something completely different. They decided that there was no point rehearsing in the massive, echoing warehouse with its out of tune piano, and that they would meet up to rehearse the songs.

And so, Aramis would spend from 6am to 10am making coffees for the early birds with d'Artagnan, before taking the train and rehearsing. At last their lines and movements were coordinating, and it was like they were all parts of a big machine. At 6pm they would travel home and start to rehearse the songs, before gratefully falling into bed.

Athos had a piano covered with a sheet, which he unveiled one night out of the blue. A tuner came and fixed it up, and when he was done Athos handed him a few crisp bills. Money, as always, bothered him slightly. Not money itself, but his particular lack of it. What he made in the morning was gone by the end of the day, either on lunch or the tube tickets or whatever else. If Athos was annoyed by his now semi permanent guest, he only showed it occasionally.

The piano itself was nice. It was faded and chipped on the edges, but it spoke of a time of elegance and luxury. It creaked whenever you breathed near it, but when he played it came out with this beautiful voice. Kind of like Athos himself, when he thought about it. From then on he would spend his evenings laying it and singing as Athos drank on the sofa, muttering about a woman and a brother from long ago. Even the little grey apartment came alive when Treville's music was played, and when he persuaded Athos to sing along even the peeling wallpaper seemed more cheery.

The days plodded on, and soon enough his life became so entangled in his character's he would mistake some of Rodier's pickup lines with his own. He enjoyed his job at The Sword and Musket, especially as it allowed him to get to know d'Artagnan a little better.

"I'm sorry I'm late but I can explain…" As d'Artagnan rushed in, soaked to the skin with his hair hanging around his face, all Aramis could think of was how much he resembled an over eager puppy. "My alarm clock died and then Porthos was cooking eggs and bacon and I just had to stay because Porthos is just the best cook ever with all these spices."

Porthos was staying round at Constance's for the night? His heart skipped a beat. He had no reason to be annoyed and absolutely no reason to be jealous. It was ridiculous. "He can cook?" Of course he can cook. He can do anything. When Aramis thought about it, Porthos Du Vallon was exceedingly annoying.

"Oh yeah. He's amazing. He's never cooked for you?"

"I can't say he has." He tried so desperately not to sound bitter. It probably didn't work.


	3. Hot Soup and the Court of Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( In the musical: Aramis plays Arnaud Rodier; Athos plays Jean-Pierre Berlioz; Porthos plays LaRue; D'Artagnan plays Charles Gaume; Constance plays Céleste Valluy)
> 
> These characters are sadly not mine.

It was a rainy Tuesday in March that Aramis finally got to sample the legendary cooking. Porthos announced that he didn't have to disappear as usual that particular day (Aramis had a bad feeling that the large bruise across the side of Porthos' face had something to do with the change of plan), so Constance decided that they were all to come round to her house after rehearsal to attempt the songs. And so, the five of them splashed through the streets towards Constance's little house with every intent to work hard on the musical aspects of the play.

As it was, when they arrived they were so sodden and cold that they couldn't stop their teeth chattering long enough to hold a note. D'Artagnan darted off to his room to go and get changed, and Porthos thumped up the stairs after him. He returned completely changed, leading them into the living room. Clearly he spent a lot of time at Constance's house. Enough time to keep a change of clothes at her house. He almost ignored the tendril of jealousy sneaking up his spine. Almost.

Porthos dragged him into the cosy kitchen - his skin felt warm where he touched it - to help him cook. It was small but clean and pretty much tidy, with different sized tins carrying labels ranging from 'potatoes' to 'soup spoons'. The bright lighting only highlighted the mean bruise on the side of his face, and Aramis opened the freezer. Seizing a bag of frozen peas, he handed them to Porthos. Reluctantly, he pressed them against the side of his face with a grunt. "You said your mum was Spanish, right?"

"That she is. That does not mean she or I can cook, however. Please don't expect Paella." Porthos chuckled, handing him a knife and gesturing towards a packet of tomatoes on the side.

"I'm just gonna do tomato soup, to warm us up. D'Artagan reckons he's gonna get a garden going and we'll be growing our own veggies by next Spring."

"In this weather? I'll believe it when I see it."

"He is the most excited I've ever seen anyone when talking about what month you can plant peas." Their easy conversation carried on, and Aramis discovered he wasn't actually too bad at cooking himself. Granted, all he had to do was cut up tomatoes, he believed he did it with quite a bit of skill.

"Athos should eat this, at least."

"Doesn't he eat much usually?"

"I have no idea how he can possibly resist my offerings of pot noodles and microwave meals, but somehow he can." Porthos went quiet, pondering something as he stirred the soup. It was forgotten as they appeared back in the living room, where their soup was greeted with critical acclaim. After they had all finished their soup and had gotten through two bottles of wine between them, somehow they all decided to gather round the piano. Though Aramis had read and played the songs, he'd never heard his friends singing it before. When he sat down, it was oddly tense. If they sounded crap, the whole musical was over.

As soon as his fingers had started playing the keys, it all just seemed to fall into place.

The opening number started with just two notes on a piano, gradually evolving into something with more and more force. The first line was d'Artagnan's, spoken rather than sang. "Revolution is a word better whispered in the dead of night."

"Four syllables that could easily made you swing from a rope." There was Athos, with his dry tone and a roll of his eyes.

"Four syllables that could start the fire of hope." And there was Porthos, quiet but in a way that made you want to listen.

"Faith means hope, my friend." He could see the scene in his mind's eye. His character Arnaud walking up to Porthos' LaRue, looking him in the eye. The words slowly escalate from spoken to sung, as the lights slowly start to illuminate their surroundings. "And if you start a fire, it'll burn everything around."

"Revolution is the only place hope can be found." Porthos sung his lines slow and rumbling, and Aramis' mental image was becoming clearer and clearer.

"Maybe you should all stop talking so loud, if you're gonna swing from a rope at the cost of hope I don't want anything to do with it." Constance actually moved her hip, and he could see d'Artagnan smile. At that moment it became clear. These people were perfect for their roles. They didn't do any more of the musical that night, but Aramis couldn't get the grin off his face.

The next day, Porthos arrived with a flask of 'left over' soup, which he gave to Athos at lunch. Aramis couldn't stop grinning then, either.

Soon enough April had arrived, and was flanked by showers that bit into his bones and made Athos' roof leak enough to fill two buckets. They were huddled in HQ (catchier that just The Warehouse), sipping hot chocolates and complaining about the weather. One chair was empty, and Aramis lasted about five minutes before he had to ask. Porthos never missed a day, despite the cuts and bruises he never explained. He was ill, according to the text he sent Constance, but there was something in the back of Aramis's mind telling him that something was wrong.

They rehearsed anyway, though the atmosphere of the room was off. They were missing their LaRue, and he just couldn't shake the feeling something was wrong.

"He's allowed to have a sick day. You're worrying too much." D'Artagnan replied when he told him about his hunch.

"Porthos never has a sick day. And what's with those bruises? He's getting beaten up regularly, but won't talk about it. Surely you're worried."

D'Artagnan looked at the ground. "Yeah, I'm worried. But we don't know him well enough to turn up at his house and interrogate him for answers. Not that we know where he lives."

Aramis sighed. He was probably right. If only he could just shake that feeling he was hurt.

Something, however, made him ask Constance where Porthos lived. And something made him walk down those narrow streets until he came upon a ramshackle block of flats crouching in the corner of a shady street. It was Courthouse Lane, but a block of graffiti told him he was walking down the Court Of Miracles. Glancing down at the cigarette stubs and whisky bottles littering the floor, it was almost apt. He could see a man crouched in the corner, desperately trying to chase a drop of whiskey still left in his bottle. Two women in tight dresses with big hair stood on the corner, and as he watched a car swung by and one climbed in. Smudged red lipstick blew him a kiss, and he grinned in return. Prostitutes in big heels with fake smiles beside beggars on dirty ground with a smudged hopscotch drawn on in chalk. Black bags of litter were starting to fill up on the side of the road, and one had spilt out onto the ground. It seemed to contain only crushed beer cans, cigarette boxes and fast food packets. It was the type of place that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and it took that something in the back of his mind to make him carry on. 4B, Constance had told him. She said that she'd never been, but that was where she'd sent postcards to when she'd travelled to France a few months ago. It was true; he couldn't imagine Constance in a place like this. Or Porthos: with his wide grin and his quick wit.

He walked past the unconscious man lying on the stairwell, up four flights of stairs, until he get to 4B. It didn't seem different to any of the others, and for a fleeting second he thought Constance must have had the wrong address. Three sharp knocks later he was just about to turn on his heel and escape the suffocating place. Just as he was about to turn, however, the door opened on its chain.

"Who is it?" The voice was a sharp cockney, and female. Definitely not Porthos.

"It's Aramis. I'm looking for Porthos Du Vallon. I might have come to the wrong place…" The door slammed close, but opened again quickly. The woman was blonde and was wearing a long dress that reached the floor and covered both arms. Sharp cheekbones and clear eyes made her stand out, like she was destined for a catalogue rather than a grotty flat in the middle of London. She wasn't pretty exactly, but had a face you would remember. She seemed tough and beautiful. Her and Porthos were probably perfect for each other. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

"You're in the right place." She turned her sharp gaze towards the back of the flat. It was brightly lit, if cramped, and looked clean. It was totally at odds to the flats it was a part of. "I didn't know he was expecting visitors." She paused with a sigh. "Porthos mentioned you. Well, you're here now. I can't leave you out on the doorstep looking like a kicked puppy. The Court'll eat you alive." Without explanation, she turned and led him into the flat. The room was small, with only a patchwork sofa in the corner. The room was warm and pleasant, like someone had spent time sewing together the odd materials to make the sofa and the curtains that were drawn shut.

"Um, I'm sorry to barge in on you. Porthos said he was ill and I just came to check up on him. He didn't mention a girlfriend. If you'd like me to go…"

She fixed him with a hard gaze. "I am not his girlfriend." Something oddly like relief surfaced in him, and he tried not to show his smile. Porthos was an attractive man; there was no denying it. Though there was something more than lust. His infectious laugh, his quick wit and generous smiles, his agility in choreography and emotion when saying his lines.

"You're not? Forgive me, I just assumed."

"You wouldn't be the first." There was a slight smile, and she fiddled with her sleeve. "Porthos is through there. Perhaps you can tell him that he's an idiot, not that he'd listen. I'm going out for more supplies, I'll be back in half an hour or so. I've done all I can, but if you can help…" She trailed off, shrugging her dainty shoulders. He watched her go over to the table and pick up a small knife, sliding it into her sleeve. He couldn't blame her. London at night could be a scary place.

"It's not as bad as it looks." It was as if icy tendrils had emerged from the shadows to wrap around his legs. They trapped his arms by his sides, rendered him helpless and speechless. The sight anchored him to the doorframe, his breaths coming in quick succession.

Porthos Do Vallon was laid shirtless on the bed. It could have been from one of his hidden, forbidden dreams that he had to take a long shower to rid him of. But it was a dream twisted into a nightmare.


	4. Bloody Bandages and Half Promises

Porthos’ face was deathly pale, his eyes tired and bloodshot. Bruises stretched along his jaw and there was a bloody graze at the very top of his head. A large bandage was wrapped around his right arm, but blood was starting to soak through. He counted eight cuts, shallow but jagged, his two years as a medical student shining through. The worst was just below his collarbone, where he could see a few untidy stitches holding it together. It was long and jagged and quite deep, still bleeding sluggishly. A few inches higher and it would have severed his jugular. He would be dead. Another was just below his ribcage, stitched up again. It wasn’t as long and looked shallower, mirroring another a bit higher up. Three others looked bad, two with bandages loosely wrapped around them. Purpling bruises stretched across his ribcage and blossomed down his side like a gruesome flower. On his side was a collection of tiny scars amid the blackening bruise. It was a grisly oil painting, a gruesome masterpiece.

He didn’t know what to say.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Then suddenly he did. He was rushing over and falling to his knees and checking Porthos’ temperature and fishing around for some bandages. In his satchel was a small first aid kit he always carried, and he didn’t pause for breath as he arranged it next to Porthos on the bed. Then he was cursing louder than Porthos was and cleaning the wounds as best he could with antiseptic wipes and struggling for a coherent order to force all these thoughts into. As he spoke he bandaged the wounds he needed to, keeping an eye on his right shoulder that was still bleeding.

“You’re an idiot: the woman who was here said to tell you that.”  
“Her name’s Flea.”  
It took him aback slightly, but then his hands were working furiously again and the stream of words were spewing out of his mouth. “You’re an absolute idiot. How could you get yourself this badly hurt? How could you lie there and not even tell your friends that you’re a punching bag? How could you care so little about your own safety? How are we supposed to perform a damn play if you’re not there? If you die in some bed somewhere because you’re not in a hospital? How could you be so selfish and go and get attacked in the streets and not check yourself into the damn A & E?”  
“You don’t know me.” The words were controlled and certain, but there was a shimmering anger then. Porthos was staring right at him, right into him, and it was enough to make the words freeze in his head.  
“I know that I don’t know you. I don’t know where you get those bruises every day, where you came from. I didn’t know where you lived until an hour or so ago.” He breathed in, going to rub his hand on his face before noticing the blood beneath his fingernails. “But I care about you, Porthos.” He made eye contact, willing his feelings to penetrate his brain. He wanted them to paint themselves on the back of his eyelids, echo around Porthos’ head until he finally understood. “I want to know you.”

Porthos went quiet for a long time after that. Aramis cleaned the dried blood away – thankfully when that was gone he looked less like a zombie and more like an actual human – and unwrapped the bandage around his arm. He sucked in a sharp breath as he took it in. The wound itself was small but deep enough, and the blood didn’t seem to be stopping. “I’m going to have to stitch it. How many painkillers have you had?”  
“None. Didn’t have any in. Just stitch. Flea did. I can handle it.” I don’t want you to just handle it. I want to hold you tight and make it somehow okay. That was what he wanted to say. But instead he just nodded and threaded his needle. Porthos grunted in pain when the needle first went in, his hand instinctively going out to grab Aramis’ arm. His vice like grip didn’t let up even when Aramis had finished stitching and wrapped a bandage.  
“That’s the best stitching in all of Paris.”  
“You’re wasted as an actor. You’re meant to be seamstress.” Porthos actually had the nerve to chuckle at his own joke. Lying on bloody bed sheets, covered with bandages and chuckling at his own damn joke.  
“You’re an idiot.”  
“So I’ve heard.” Porthos paused, breathing in steadily. “I want to sit up.”  
“I want to shag Dean from Supernatural. Wouldn’t mind a bit of Sam too. We don’t always get what we want.” There. He had just come out (maybe). Porthos grinned at him. There was blood on his teeth. “But I suppose we can sit you up if you want.” He wrapped his arm around Porthos’ bare shoulders, starting to slowly shuffle him up so he could lean against the headrest. His breaths were uneven and pained, and Porthos leant his head on Aramis’ shoulder with a huge sigh.  
“It hurts, ‘Mis.” He sounded so tired and vulnerable in that moment, with his hand still wrapped around Aramis’ arm. Porthos shuffled across the bed, and Aramis slid onto the duvet next to him. He kept his arm wrapped around Porthos, breathing as one in the little room. “Under the bed.” He broke the silence and lifted his head off Aramis’ shoulder. He instantly started to miss the contact.  
“Sorry?”  
“Under the bed. There’s a bottle of somethin’.” Sure enough, a cool bottle met his fingertips. Whiskey. Aramis unscrewed the top and handed it to Porthos, who took it and took a huge gulp. When he tasted it afterwards it tasted slightly like burning. He took another gulp and passed it back. Then the silence stretched back.

“She’s clever.” Porthos suddenly broke the silence, pausing to take another gulp of whiskey.  
“Who?”  
“Flea. She’s bright.”  
“I got that from our conversation. And fierce, too.”  
“We dated. Well, not dated. We had sex a few times, chose each other to lean on.” Maybe talking exes wasn’t his ideal conversation, but if it got Porthos talking it was worth it. “She got into law school.”  
“That’s amazing.”  
“Yeah, it is. Flea, she can be anything. She’ll get out of this place, out of this life; move somewhere safe, where she doesn’t need to carry a knife to go round to the shops.” Aramis didn’t reply, just listened to Porthos. “But she can’t work, cause she’s always studying. And there are two of us who need to eat and pay rent and electricity, and being an unemployed actor doesn’t pay too well.” His heart was speeding up. Somehow he knew what was coming next. “We look after each other. It’s what we do. I needed the money, Aramis. I need the money.” Porthos stopped then, taking another gulp of whiskey.  
“You fight, don’t you? You fight for money.” There it was. Out there, floating around in the stuffy air of the little room.  
“People make bets, and each match is worth more. So for the first match I’d be paid £100, then for the second I’d be paid £200.” Porthos was meeting his eye, trying to make him understand. “So on a bad night I was still making £1000. I’ve never had money before. And I was paying back all these debts and Flea’s textbooks cost money and then I’d still be borrowing to pay rent.” Aramis felt ever so slightly sick, and suddenly the room was too small. “So I’d fight again the next night, and the next one.”  
“And then you start relying on it?” It felt almost like he’s floating a million miles away, reliving this conversation a million different ways in another galaxy.  
“I guess. The thrill of it; the cheering and the performance; the build up then the climax: it’s kinda like a stage.”  
“Those wounds on your chest didn’t come from a fist.” Without realising it, he tenderly strokes his finger along Porthos’ side, the huge bruise with the host of tiny cuts. They looked like they’d come from something hard repeatedly hitting it. Something like a boot.  
“I was too cocky, I guess. I beat this guy easily, and I collected my winnings. Next thing I know I’m in some back alley and they’re surrounding me and I’m fighting but there are too many and they brought knives.” He paused for a heartbeat, and Aramis tried desperately not to imagine Porthos lying in some alley somewhere. “Managed to inflict some damage of my own though.” Porthos grinned his wolfish smile. “They’ll be aching tomorrow, the lot of ‘em.”  
“I daresay you’ll be aching more.” The silence grew again, thicker than before. There were so many things he needed to say.  
“Why haven’t you gone to a hospital? There’s a risk of infection.”  
“The second they see knife wounds the police’ll get involved. The whole fightin’ ring’s illegal, and if anyone tries to investigate they’ll take us all down.” “Porthos?”  
“Yeah?”  
“When the play blows up and we’re collecting awards in pressed suits and feel the thrill of a performance every night, you’ll stop fighting. Tell me you’ll stop. Please.” He hated how vulnerable he sounded, but he turned his head to face Porthos anyway. Suddenly their eyes were close together and he could feel his breath on his cheek and their lips were an inch away.  
“I promise, Mis.” Aramis nodded, and Porthos was so close and filling up the space in front of him and so gorgeous and smelt like mint and leather and… he caught a look at the bruise blooming on Porthos’ jaw.

He leant back and stared at his hands. His friend possibly had a concussion, beaten and battered and in need of a friend. What right did Aramis have to kiss him when he was probably pain delirious? So the silence stretched on and on, full of what could have been. His friend deserved everything. Porthos deserved everything. He deserved fiery Flea who was going to be the best lawyer London had ever seen; he deserved Constance and her friendship; he deserved so many awards and he deserved not have to fight every night to try and stay afloat. He didn’t need Aramis with his baggage and insecurities to kiss him and hold him and repeat a thousand times that he was gorgeous and that he was Porthos and that was so impressive and unforgettable… he needed a friend.

At some point Flea came back and Porthos drifted off to sleep, and Aramis stood up with aching limbs to leave. Flea nodded at him with something between respect and thankfulness, placing a small kiss on Porthos’ forehead. He bowed his head in return, turning to leave the room. There was a pang of something like jealousy, but he buried it.

He was just about to slip out when Flea appeared, following him and closing the door. The lock clicked loudly, and she levelled a challenging gaze at him. “It’s dark. Porthos wouldn’t appreciate it if his friend got attacked in a back alley.”  
“I can look out for myself.” She didn’t say anything, merely flicking her eyes back to the door. That spoke volumes. There were cruel people with knives about, evidently.

If the Court was scary during the day, the night sent shivers down his spine. It was bitterly cold. Every alleyway held the potential of someone armed and dangerous, every shadow morphed into nightmarish creatures and shapes. He nearly leaped a mile when a homeless man rolled over in the gutter.

Flea smirked at him, striding forward into the shadows. “So, how long have you lived here?”  
She stayed quiet for a long time. “I was born here. Porthos and I grew up together.”  
“Um, Porthos mentioned that you got into law school.”  
“He tells everyone he meets that. He was happier than me when I got in.”  
“He told me about the boxing. I’m worried for him.”  
She turned and looked him in the eye. Her gaze was sharp and blue, the polar opposite of Porthos’. “Do you think I’m not? He goes out and comes back with cuts and bruises and fractures. I’m stuck at home studying and trying to make a better life, and I’d give anything to make things better but that isn’t the way things are. This is the Court, Aramis.” She breathed heavily, turning away and striding off. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. The train’s over there.”  
“I didn’t mean to offend. Forgive me.” She was already gone, and he waited for the train in a lonely silence.

The next day offered no sign of Porthos, and Aramis sent him a text telling him not to even think about getting up from bed for at least a week. They practiced the scenes he wasn’t in, and when lunch rolled around Constance cornered him half way through a wrap.  
“Hello.”  
She smiled, but worry showed through the gnawing on her lip. “Are you hiding something?”  
“Sorry?” Constance was a forward person, it was in her nature, but usually she was more succinct than this. Sitting down beside him, she started to tap her fingers against the bench.  
“I’m worried about Porthos. Usually if he gets ill he’ll be round at mine complaining, or he’ll be ringing me every three seconds. But all I get is a text in the morning saying he can’t come to rehearsal, without any type of explanation.” Deflated, she rested her head on her hand. “I’m worried. And you know something. Don’t hide it from us, Aramis. We’re a team, aren’t we?”  
“He asked me not to tell anyone.” Slowly crushing him, the secret seemed to weigh him down. He was tired, had spent most of last night patching up a friend he felt he hardly knew, and Constance looked so worried… the words just spilled out.  
“I went to see him last night.”  
Constance nodded, and he could practically hear her brain whirring. “You know about the fighting.” He nodded, the words dying in his throat. “He’s got a few bruises, but he’ll be okay.” He wasn’t sure whether she was reassuring him or her. “I hate that he fights. I just hate it so much. But it will be okay. He’s a strong man, Aramis. When the divorce first started he was my brick.” She smiled softly at the memory, and the jealousy almost felt like a knife twisting in his gut.  
“I didn’t know about the divorce.”  
“You wouldn’t know, I haven’t told you.”  
He could have told her about the knife wounds. About the group of men cornering him in a dark alley. About fierce, protective Flea changing his bloody bed sheets and carrying a knife because she’s scared of the same thing happening to her.

He doesn’t.

She squeezes him reassuringly on the arm, and heads off to find d’Artagnan. He watches her go. Secrets only manage to crush him more.


	5. A Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to Keira for reminding me to actually get a move on and post this.

They rehearsed what they could without Porthos there, and made some progress even if HQ felt empty without him. Aramis and Athos had a scene together, and a song that they didn’t have choreography for and so just stood around to sing. Constance had recorded Aramis playing it on her phone, so their backing track consisted of a tinny recording. They tried anyway, however, and were slowly getting the hang of it.

That night, Aramis couldn’t sleep. It was the exhilarating power of this musical, changing and altering and forming beneath their hands. It was the image of Porthos beaten and bloody in an alleyway. It was the image of Porthos’ lips a centimetre away from his own, Porthos’ scent in the corner of his mind, his chuckle on a warped repeat. It was Porthos Du Vallon that kept him awake.

So, when the next morning eventually plodded round, Aramis was not nearly as chipper as usual when he came into work. He didn’t even flirt with one of the students that came in to have their caffeine shots, and barely managed to acknowledge d’Artagnan when he came striding in. Only ten minutes late.

“Sorry I’m late.”  
“You’re always sorry. And yet, you’re always late.” D’Artagnan hunched his shoulders in slightly, glumly reaching for his apron. Damn that boy, looking like a puppy that had just been kicked. Damn gorgeous, probably straight anyway Porthos who had kept him awake all night. Aramis cleared his throat. “Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping.”  
D’Artagnan perked up, focusing his gaze on him. “Are you okay?”  
“I’m fine. Just worried about Porthos, is all.” D’Artagnan patted him on the back, and offered him a grin.  
“He’s Porthos. He’ll be alright.”  
No, maybe Porthos wasn’t going to be okay this time. This time he had knife wounds and bruises everywhere and could well be suffering from internal bleeding for all Aramis knew. “I’m sure he will. What about you? You appear to be sporting some bags under your eyes too, my friend.”  
D’Artagnan sighed, sitting down on a table and clutching a coffee. He stared down at it glumly.  
Aramis perched beside him, holding a coffee of his own. It was called a Caffeine Explosion, and was exactly what he needed. “Do tell.”  
“It’s Constance.” D’Artagnan looked so damn miserable, and he didn’t really have time for it but he nudged the younger man anyway.  
“What about her?”  
“She’s still married.”  
Aramis blinked. “I thought she was divorced.”  
“Her husband’s a dick, and he’s digging his heels in. Trying to accuse her of cheating on him. He stole her money, disrespects her, and then he has the nerve to hit her! She’s crazy and brave and beautiful and he treats her like she’s nothing. I just have to stand by.”  
“You can give her support.” Aramis wrapped an arm around D’Artagnan, who leaned into him. “You can give her your love. She’s a strong woman, she’ll be okay.”  
“I feel powerless.” He was looking like a kicked puppy again. “I think I might love her.”  
“Crap.”  
“Yeah.” He dragged a hand over his face, and Aramis squeezed his knee. “It’s crap. It’s crap ‘cause I haven’t got the guts to tell her and I don’t know if she feels the same.” D’Artagnan rested his head on Aramis’ shoulder, who kept a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
“Do her and Porthos…?”  
d’Artagnan let out a short bark of laughter. “No. I was scared at first. Like I’d wake up and he’d be around making breakfast so I’d guess that he and Constance had something. He sleeps on the sofa, though. They’re friends.” D’Artagnan paused, chuckling dryly. “She needs a friend. She doesn’t need me.”  
“If you love her, then you love her. You need to go for it. The worst she can do is not feel the same, and your friendship will only get stronger.”  
“Is now the time?”  
“If you keep asking yourself that you’ll never tell her.”

D’Artagnan nodded, squaring his shoulders before turning to Aramis with a sly smile. “So you’re saying if you love someone you should tell them, even if you’re scared? You shouldn’t just want them and beat yourself up because you don’t have the guts to tell them?”  
“Where are you going with this?”  
d’Artagnan was looking way too smug for Aramis’ liking. “I’m going to tell Constance. And you’re going to tell Porthos.” His face had transformed from a kicked puppy and to wolfish in its grin, and Aramis was actually left speechless as d’Artagnan left to charm a pensioner.

Another week passed before Porthos returned. Bruises shadowed his jaw, and in his loose shirt you could vaguely see the scar beneath his collarbone. Aramis was rooted to the spot; unable to respond when Porthos raised a hand at him. “I’m back.” There was no reply, though d’Artagnan and Constance were staring at him with twin looks of confusion on their faces. “Good to see you too.”  
Constance snapped out of her reverie first. She strode over to Porthos with her hand planted firmly on her hip. “You have a scar.”  
“Yeah, I do. I can explain though Connie, I promise.” She didn’t even flinch at the nickname, reaching out and tracing the scar with her hand. Stepping away, she looked him up and down for a long time.  
“Explain, then.” She was choking on happiness or anger and sadness or worry or perhaps all three.  
His dark eyes darted round the group, pausing on each of them. When his eyes met his own Aramis tried to smile, almost moving forward but not quite able to move his feet. “Okay. I got, uh, in a fight. Got a bit battered, but I’ve rested up and I’m better now.”  
Constance now looked positively dangerous. “That isn’t an explanation, Porthos Du Vallon.”  
“I presume you’ve been in a hospital for the past week.” Athos interjected, and Aramis had almost forgotten he was there.  
“Well, I, ya see…”  
Constance stared him in the eye, before slowly turning round to direct her burning gaze at Aramis. “You. You knew about this, didn’t you? You asked me if he would be okay because you knew.”  
He probably should say something. Everyone was looking at him like he should probably say something. “I was in medical school for two years, so I thought I could offer my expertise.” That was not the thing to say, apparently. Constance turned on her heel and strode away with a shake of the head, and Porthos deflated. Defiantly sticking themselves to the ground, his feet stopped him from going to Porthos. He wanted to hold Porthos close and kiss him, breathe in his scent and check his injuries and keep telling him everything was going to be okay.

Instead, he stood and watched with a silent Athos by his side as d’Artagnan hesitantly walked up to him. There was a second’s pause, and then he wrapped his arms around Porthos who easily returned the bear hug. D’Artagnan rested his head on Porthos’ shoulder, and Aramis felt a million miles away as Porthos slapped him on the back. D’Artagnan backed away and scratched the back of his neck, glancing up at the taller man. “Uh, glad you’re back.”

After that, Athos and d’Artagnan began a scene in which they were swordfighting as part of the song. Even after meticulous practice and the choreographer friend of Constance’s taking them through the moves, d’Artagnan barely misses Athos’ face with his, admittedly rubber, sword. At some point Constance disappeared with red eyes that nobody dared mention, and only spared a look at Porthos to tell him that there was no chance in Heaven or Hell he was going to do anything involving moves or stunts in the play rehearsal for the next week at least.

Three hours passed until Treville appeared, thrusting yet another new version of the play at them and disappearing again. “Yet more changes, I presume. We should take a break to read through, then try to tackle the changes.” Athos announced, and so Aramis sat down against the wall on one side. Directly across from him Constance sat immersed in the play, flicking through the pages. Gingerly D’Artagnan joined her to hesitantly reach for her hand, and seemed perfectly content to read over Constance’ shoulder as he massaged her hand with both of his. They seemed totally comfortable, and the love between them was suddenly clear.

Brushing away the pang of loneliness, he buried himself in the play. Each of the small changes took their characters to new places: small things like his character becoming more religious as Athos’ became more reliant on drink to get him through the weeks of the revolution. Interrupted from his reverie, he still grinned widely when Porthos sat down next to him with a grunt.  
“You look a lot better.”  
“Yeah. Jus’ wish it would heal quicker is all.” His stomach was actually fluttering. Somehow he managed to transform from a confident, smooth adult to a schoolboy with a crush every time he was in Porthos’ immediate proximity. Porthos gaze drifted over to Constance. “She took it better than I imagined.”  
“How did you imagine she would take it?”  
“Last time I came back with a fractured elbow. She flipped a table, literally, then wouldn’t talk to me for three days.”  
“She cares greatly about you.”  
“She’ll forgive me. Clearly I’m not the only one she cares about.” He gestured to d’Artagnan.  
“He loves her, you know.”  
“Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a good lad, and a hard worker.”  
“Ah, young love. So sweet, so pure.”  
Porthos chuckled. “I remember young love. Lots a’ fumbling around and fake IDs.” He paused. “What do you think of the new script then?”  
“It’s interesting so far, I’m about half way through.”  
“Turn to the end, the scene where you and me sing. That scene’s changed.” Aramis flicked to the end, swearing quietly under his breath.  
“I see what you mean.” Hiding in the margin with the stage directions, there it was. Five words. ‘Music climaxes. LaRue Arnaud kiss.’ “Well then. I guess we’ll just have to deal with it as mature actors.” His heart was beating too fast, and there was something in his throat he tried to dislodge with a cough.  
“I guess we will. Adds a bit of drama to the rehearsals anyway. Come on, Athos’ getting restless.” The fact that Porthos was so totally okay with it threw him out of the loop. Was Porthos gay? Bi? Pan? Maybe he was one of those straight guys who were just really comfortable in his own sexuality. Aramis really hoped it wasn’t that.

Later that evening, they were curled up at Constance’s with a few glasses of wine (apart from Athos, who had his own bottle; Aramis really had to talk to him about the joys of liver failure) when a tipsy d’Artagnan brought the subject up. “So, about the changes in Act 4. Wasn’t expecting that from Treville.”  
“It’ll probably be his wife adding it in.” Constance was looking at Porthos, and they seemed to be having a silent conversation of some sort. Porthos tried to disguise a laugh as a cough, and Constance looked away with a knowing smile.  
“Treville has a wife?”  
“Of course he does. Sometimes you really can be clueless d’Artagnan.” She rested her head on his shoulder, and he looked at her like she was the stars. Tangled securely in his curls, her hand never strayed from Porthos who was sat on the floor in front of the sofa. Aramis was sat beside him, and at one point Porthos had stretched his arm around Aramis. His touch was comforting and electrifying and Aramis never wanted him to let go.  
“Anyway…” d’Artagnan stretched the word out, “You two are going to be locking lips then.” He was clearly staring at Aramis, as was everyone else it seemed, but Aramis stared straight ahead.  
“Don’t ever call it ‘locking lips again’.”  
“Sorry Constance.”  
“It’s just like any other scene. We’re actors, so we’ll act.” Porthos mumbled his approval, but his eyelids were already drooping. He leant his head on Aramis’ shoulder, and he felt every breath the other man took. He took another sip of wine with Porthos’ hair tickling his neck, and felt finally completely content.

Later that night, Porthos and Constance were aggressively whispering in the kitchen. “He’s gay. I asked Athos, and Aramis is definitely bi.”  
“I know that already Connie.”  
“Why don’t you go for him then?”  
“I… it’s different with him. I don’t just wanna screw him.”  
She paused. “Do you love him?”  
“I dunno.” She sighed, staring at him.  
“You are impossible.”  
“You love me for it though.” She sighed, but nudged with her hip on the way out.  
“How are you feeling?”  
“Better. I’m okay Con.”  
“You need to stop fighting. One of these days the hospital will be ringing to stay you have some kind of injury and I’ll be making excuses.”  
“That won’t happen. Nobody there can beat me.” She shook her head uneasily.  
“I don’t like it.”

Four months later, Aramis was feeling anything but content. Athos disappeared one day and reappeared with a bed that he had stuck in one of the rooms, and next to the little bed that made up Aramis’ little bedroom was a gradually growing pile of bills he just couldn’t pay. The coffee shop wasn’t enough to pay them, and the interest was growing.

Which was why the next hour could quite possibly change everything, for better or for worse.

A musical needed music and dancers and choreography, not to mention more than five actors. If they were granted funds to develop it, Treville’s idea could actually start happening. For months they had toiled and learnt and sang and rehearsed in a tattered warehouse, and for the next hour they would put on a ‘best bits’ performance for a group of people that would decide whether or not to fund them.

They were all dealing with the stress in a different way: Constance wouldn’t stop talking; his legs were shaking uncontrollably; Athos was sat in absolute stillness; Porthos wouldn’t stop pacing and d’Artagnan… well, he wasn’t handling it well. “d’Artagnan, just sit down. You know your lines so you don’t have to be worried. Athos, tell him.”  
“You’ll be fine.”  
“Thanks for your inspiring words.” Constance raised an eyebrow, and Aramis tried to conceal a chuckle. “You look pale, sit down or you might collapse. Aramis, the best thing to do is just try to keep control isn’t it.”  
“Don’t get me involved in this, it’s your boyfriend, your problem.” He went over to the tiny window, peering out. On the front row sat a pale man with expensive clothes and long curly hair, beside him an older man with powerful eyebrows and a cold expression and a young woman with a kind face and her hair intricately tied up. About ten businessmen and women sat behind them, either tapping at their phones or writing on clipboards.  
“He’s not my boyfriend… d’Artagnan, you have performed before. This is no different.”  
“It is different though. ‘Cause if I fail I’ll let you all down, and we’ve worked so hard and Treville’s worked so hard.” At that moment Treville poked his head round the little door leading to the office they were treating as backstage, and beckoned them out.


	6. First Performance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These characters are not money. I hope you enjoy!

The play started with just Constance stood in the middle, speaking with barely disguised emotion. “The year is 1789, and the idea of a revolution is spreading through France. It leaves a nation divided, brother turning on brother and man on wife. What started as a revolution to give the poor the same rights as the rich, turned to 40000 people getting murdered in one year alone. But these are just figures. We are the ones that fought. We are the ones that lived and breathed and mourned and celebrated and killed and loved.” As she spoke Athos and d’Artagnan walked forward, joining her and standing tall by her side. Thankfully, all traces of the crippling nerves from earlier were gone from the younger man.

“Revolution is a word better whispered in the dead of night.” D’Artagnan was strong and confident, holding Constance’s hand lightly.  
“Four syllables that could easily made you swing from a rope.” There was Athos, with his dry tone and a roll of his eyes. Porthos squeezed his hand, and Aramis grinned at him. Porthos mouthed ‘break a leg’ and let go of his hand, and side-by-side they walked out.  
“Four syllables that could start the fire of hope.” Porthos was beside him, staring out into the small audience.  
“Faith means hope, my friend.” He walked up to Porthos, no LaRue, and clapped him on the shoulder. He slowly let the talking bleed into singing. “And if you start a fire, it’ll burn everything around.”  
“Revolution is the only place hope can be found.” Porthos sung his lines slow with a rumbling sureness, and his own heartbeat was so loud they could probably hear it in the next street.  
“Maybe you should all stop talking so loud, if you’re gonna swing from a rope at the cost of hope I don’t want anything to do with it.” Constance put her hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow, and they all silently let themselves twist into the next scene.

Now they were all stood in a line, staring at an imaginary figure in the distance. “Another one’s dead. The crows were picking at his head.” D’Artagnan sang softly, heartbroken.  
“They cleared away his body this morning. Poor mother was sobbin’ but no one was listenin’” Constance sang just as softly.  
“There isn’t much food around. And so few warm clothes to be found.” Athos sang, staring down.  
“Is this the greatness of our nation? All those that don’t care will feel eternal damnation. I will pray for the boy.” He sang, just like he had a thousand times before. Somehow this time it felt more though, like he could feel his character right there in front of him. Emotion was tangible in the air, and he didn’t risk a glance at the small audience.  
“What good are prayers gonna do? Huh? ‘Cause that’s what you always say, Arnaud Rodier, but all your prayers didn’t save this kid. And as for you, Berlioz.” Porthos was singing angrily, now, his movements bringing a big cat ready to pounce to Aramis’ mind. “I’ve seen furs and riches, around the king’s scrawny neck. I’ve seen endless food being shovelled down his throat while this boy starves to death. And you all just stand by, like there’s nothing you can do. If you call yourselves good men, I’m ashamed to stand by you.” As Porthos was singing d’Artagnan walked along to stand by his side and Constance walked behind them, forging a clear division between the two: Athos and Aramis on one side, Constance, d’Artagnan and Porthos on the other.

The audience was silent, enraptured, by the end of the first song. As they turned to rearrange the air was thick with emotion. D’Artagnan stood at the front, holding Constance’s hand and staring her in the eye. His voice was soft and sweet and they looked so totally in love Aramis had to wonder if it was all acting. Then the sweet piano stopped, and a louder, more abrasive one took its place. Aramis moved to the front, standing eye to eye with Porthos and beginning to sing.

Crackling through the air, the electricity caught everyone’s attention and every single person was wrapped in the moment had formed out of 26 letters. “I have lived my life revering a book that says everything about my heart,  
Is wrong and evil and if I dare act on desires I will burn.” He sang the words quickly, finding a beat of his own. He put a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, who shrugged it off instantly to turn and talk to D’Artagnan. There was such heartbreak in the words, and the tears that came to his eyes as he sang them were not fake ones. “But I can’t watch him die.” He let his voice break. “If I watched him die I’d fall apart,  
So I can only hope when the lord take him, it’s also my turn.”

Porthos added his voice, but LaRue was angry and bitter and determined and he strode forward with every line. “Revolution is the fire roaring in my veins.  
All my life I have struggled, laboured under chains.” Treville stopped the piano, instead regularly hitting a stick against the piano to create a heartbeat. Every single eye in the room was captivated by his performance: this powerful man hitting every note and creating something so much more.  
“I will not lose my chance, I will not let this fade away,  
I will fight if I die, I’ll know we will all be free one day.”

Aramis stepped forward, singing with as much emotion as he could. “I swore to the king the day I enlisted, I swore on the Bible, I swore to my Lord.  
They do not have a leader, running on nought but anger,  
Joining a doomed revolution is nothing any of us can afford,  
Joining this revolution is throwing myself on my own dagger.”

Porthos had an inescapable presence as he sang, reminding Aramis of a wound up tiger ready to attack. “The king will die, his blood has to spill,  
We cannot be stopped: we just have to kill.  
I won’t stand by as another child dies,  
I won’t stay quiet and believe the king’s lies!”

They stepped back, magic floating through the air. They all spoke in a chant, moving around one another as Athos stepped forward. “Everything as we know it, is over now. Everything as we know, has gone now.”  
“We’re cast into this abyss.” In this scene Berloiz was drunk, and Athos swayed slightly as he spat out the words. “Nobody knows what they’re doing.”  
The next lines were sang so mournfully, even though Aramis had heard it a thousand times it still struck a chord.  
“I used to be a soldier.  
I used to be a nobleman.  
Now it’s all over.  
We’re doing what we can.”

Then the door opened, a woman slipping in. She had a cool smile and a long green dress. That was all he registered before he saw Athos cut off half way through the line, freezing in space and staring at her. He’d stopped singing, and as he watched in horror Athos strode out of the warehouse without looking back halfway through his song, half way through the finale of the show they so desperately needed to impress those people with.

The cold man with a cross around his neck stood up and cleared his throat. “Thank you Treville. We will consider everything. My advice would be: choose actors that can last the full song.” He strutted out the room, followed by the damned woman in green and after a while, by the others. The beautiful blonde on the front row stayed however, and as they started bustling around she approached him.  
“Madam, I hope you enjoyed the show.”  
“I did.” She took his hand earnestly. “I loved it, thank you. The next time I see you, I have no doubt, this will be the biggest show on the West End. You’re incredible. This is wonderful. Thank you.”  
“May I ask your name?”  
“Anne. I must go. But thank you. I hope to see you again.”

She followed the group out, and Aramis waited about ten seconds before seeking Athos out. He found him sat in the gutter, his eyes glazed and vacant.  
“Athos? Are you okay?”  
“I ruined our chances.”  
“I don’t think so. We must have faith.”  
“Treville ought to cast someone else instead.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know us. All for one…”  
“And one for all.” He tried to hide his small smile, but Aramis knew victory was his.  
He paused, waiting for Athos to meet his eye. “Who is that woman?”  
“Someone from my past.” Aramis nodded. She was the Thing Athos had been running from all this time. He crouched down beside his friend and rubbed his back, and they stayed in silence for endless moments. Then they stood up, and went outside.

They didn’t hear anything more for a month. Porthos started to fight again, much to the anxiety of all his friends. D’Artagnan showed his worry the most, and had taken to refusing to sit down until he was sure Porthos had arrived and was safe. Aramis realised he had never seen him without bruises. There was something terribly sad about that.

Athos didn’t mention the woman again, though many questions were asked. He saw Anne in passing three more times, and discovered she was a married, intelligent woman originally from Spain. Her husband never satisfied her mentally or physically, and she found their marriage claustrophobic. Any other woman he would have charmed, but all he could think about was the look on Porthos’ face when he sang, and the electricity that short-circuited his brain when Porthos was close to him. Otherwise, things got back to normal, if every day’s rehearsals now had a bleaker tone. Constance was a writer, but the newspaper didn’t pay as well as it could. The coffee shop was good, but all their bills were starting to pile up. Nobody said it exactly, but why would you choose to fund a play where the leading actor walks out mid song?

Seven weeks had crawled by when Treville suddenly appeared from his ‘office’ halfway though a rehearsal.  
“We got it.”  
“Got what?”  
“Funding.”  
“How much?”  
“When?”  
“So they liked it?”  
Treville actually laughed, staring down at the letter in his hand. “A majority vote meant that your play (‘Musketeers’) is entitled to immediate funding monthly. You are entitled to use this money how you wish to further the play, and perform it within a year. Please use ‘Knightsbridge Rehearsal Rooms’, and the company ‘Paris Performers’ to access dancers. Yours sincerely, The Crown Granting Agency.”

What happened next was a blur. They all celebrated: leaping in the air and partying and rushing to the nearest pub to toast a pint to it. D’Artagnan kissed Constance and she kissed him back, and they cheered for them. The rest of the evening D’Artagnan was pink and couldn’t shake a smile. Porthos nudged Aramis with a grin. “So, Arnaud and LaRue have a future after all.” Then he had stood up to order more drinks, once again leaving Aramis floundering for something to say.

Then, somehow, they all ended up in Constance’s living room. Athos had claimed the chair and left Porthos and Aramis sitting on the sofa. He awoke with his head buried in Porthos’s shoulder and the smell of burning finding his throat. After they had disposed of D’Artagnan’s failed attempts at pancakes, he served coffee with a certain spring in his step.

It’s incredible how quickly you can adjust to a new routine. He quit the coffee shop to rehearse full time, and they grew closer and closer until he could name Constance’s first ever boyfriend and recognise d’Artagnan’s great uncle Jim with the dodgy knee on sight. They were family, and if he found himself brushing closer to Porthos every now and then, well, Porthos wasn’t complaining.

He still fought. Law school was expensive, so he said. And Athos still drank, though he had brought up the idea of an AA meeting once or twice. Aramis thought it was progress. Constance had at last ended her divorce and sent her horrible ex out of her life, and she and D’Artagnan ‘celebrated’. Porthos and Aramis had been in the living room sharing a bottle of something. The walls were very thin.

With dancers and backing and choreography, everything was starting to come together. Treville’s music was beautiful and flowing, and the dancers were nothing short of incredible as they made the notes a living, breathing creature. Their muscles burned from trying to remember their dance moves (apart from D’Artagnan because he was annoyingly young and Porthos because he reckoned that it was like the rhythm of a fight: all Aramis knew was that they were annoyingly good at it), but nothing could beat the crackle of magic in the air when they were bringing each word to life.

As for the kissing scene, they both dealt with it like professionals. It was a bit of a let down, to be honest. It was a stage kiss, and both he and Porthos so obviously held back. It was however, an addition to the dreams that took up far too much of his time.

Then suddenly they were getting fitted for clothes. Then they were in loose white shirts with prop swords doing their choreography for the final time before actual people came to see it. Then it was the dress rehearsal and oh Lord was he was terrified. 

Constance was a good thing for D’Artagnan, and about half an hour before the main play he was only slightly paler than usual. She was the pinnacle of calm, looking resplendent in a red dress with her hair tied up in an elegant mess. Treville was doing lots of ringing his hands together and pacing around, and by Aramis’s side sat Porthos.

That moment seemed so completely obvious, when someone was trying to cover the bruise on his jaw and making last minute adjustments to whatever that Aramis suddenly wanted to say it. He wanted to grab Porthos and hold him tight and say that he was his best friend and that he loved him more than he’s loved anyone before.

“You’re my best friend…”  
“And you’re mine, o’ course. Just don’t tell Constance, she’ll hit you into next week.” Porthos grinned, and then someone was calling places and he wasn’t ready and yet here he was, standing in the wings as a twelve-year-old kid in rags staggered and coughed. Then Constance appeared, sounding so mournful and soft but with a voice that commanded the crowd’s attention.

“We are the ones that fought. We are the ones that lived and breathed and mourned and celebrated and killed and loved.” That was his cue, and as he walked on stage Porthos was by his side. His family was all here, telling this story together.

The play was different to any dress rehearsal: the atmosphere was terrifying and electrifying; he felt this need to do Treville and all his friends justice; and he saw one old lady start to sob to herself when D’Artagnan and Constance sang to each other.

Athos was moving, Constance was note perfect; D’Artagnan was endlessly energetic, the dancers were incredible and Porthos was magnificent.

The play began with the five of them picking sides, with Rodier and Berlioz taking the king’s side in the revolution and Charles, Celeste and LaRue choosing to join the revolution. Charles and Celeste fall deeply in love and decide to marry when they know they’re safe. Straight after their song though the mood turns harsh and Berlioz enters clearly drunk. Aramis had seen the play so many times he could probably recite it backwards while being chucked from a bridge. Berlioz sings about how much they have all lost in the revolution, and how things will never be the same.

Athos had this raw presence on the stage. Stood in the centre with a face full of pain and anger with rough, bitter words being spat from his mouth, he was captivating.

“Nobody knows what they’re doing.”  
Porthos, Constance and d’Artagnan stood behind him and raised their swords.  
“You could never understand, until you bury a loved one.” Charles was raw, but Porthos was bitter.  
“Until you’ve felt hunger and pain, too big to explain.”  
“Until you’ve had every opportunity ripped away.” Constance was such a gorgeous singer, but everyone’s eyes were on Athos.

“This revolution stole it all away.” Athos sang.  
“We will fight till our dying day.” The ensemble chanted.  
“We’re in an impossible situation.”  
“This is it, the fire of our nation.” They stamped their feet as one massive living being.  
“Everything’s is going to hell.”  
The lights turned darker then, three spotlights illuminating his three friends. “They’ll be dead by morning bell. Those are our orders when to charge.” D’Artagnan said.  
“Our friends. Our friends.”  
“Celeste, they’re smart. They’ll know we have won. They know when we will charge; they’ll be out of the city by then.

The lights went black, and now Aramis was in the centre with Constance walking up to him carefully.

“Arnaud. Tell me how you are.”  
He met her eye and smiled. “Celeste, we have come so far. I heard you’ll soon be Charles’ wife.”  
“Perhaps, when I don’t fear for his life. But that’s what I’m here to say: I know someone that, with a pay, can get you away.” She put a hand on his shoulder, turning pleading eyes to him.  
“Paris is my home. I do not flee the fight.”  
“Then you’ll be dead by morning light.”  
“Look around, Celeste. We are armed and we are trained. We will be safe. I will stay, and fight another day.”  
“Be safe, Arnaud.”  
“They are the ones that should fear. We will destroy them.”  
Her tone turned sharp. “Perhaps you will. And Charles’ and LaRue’s will be the blood you spill? Which slaughter would you prefer?”  
“The one that I survive.”  
She started to move forward, and he took a step backwards with practiced ease. “Is that true? Better than anyone, I know you. Do you want to live without LaRue?” He stopped walking, planting his feet on the ground. “Find him then, you damned fool. Find LaRue,”  
“I should warn my men.”  
“They already know. Find LaRue. Say the things you’ve always wanted to. Just find LaRue.”

Constance left the stage, leaving just him with the spotlight beating down. The lady on the front row was now a mess, sobbing into her cardigan. “I can’t lose him. I won’t lose him. I can’t lose him. I won’t lose him.”

Intermission. Treville poked his head out, and then they all did. The crowd were buzzing; half crying and half loving it. It was a blur of set and costume changes, d’Artagnan spilling coffee on his shirt and Porthos grabbing him by the shoulder and telling him he did just great.

The curtain rose.

And, then it was just Aramis and Porthos, LaRue and Rodier, the only people on the planet. They sang, and the whole audience was silent. Breathlessly, they kissed. It was fireworks, electricity, it was the heat of the spotlights and it was Porthos’ calloused fingers holding the back of his neck, holding him close. He hadn’t done that before.

Then they had lines and choreography to remember and he wanted to stay in this moment forever but the play carried on and soon it was their song again, except this was terrible and tragic and he didn’t have to fake the tears as he sang. Then it was his line, and the audience were holding their breath.

“I can’t let you through. I won’t let you through.”  
“The king and queen are in there. They must stand trial.”

LaRue dived forward and Rodier raised his musket. There was a deafening shot and then louder silence.

Rodier wept. Aramis wept. The lady on the front row was beside herself. It was a heart wrenching, evil, unforgettable tragedy.

For LaRue’s death scene, it was a deafening crescendo and then jst the two of them, with Arnaud holding him and praying to anyone out there before he was dragged away. For Rodier’s death scene, enemies stood together to watch him face the noose. Porthos was back up again in fresh armour by his side, a ghostly shadow lit up so bright no one could miss him. They sang side by side, and then LaRue grabbed Rodier and kissed him hard. Porthos grabbed Aramis and kissed him hard.  
“LaRue. I will see you soon. I will earn your forgiveness, one day. I will not hide the love inside of me; I will bow to a book no more. Lord, I am yours.” He stepped into the noose and the lights went off.

It was a costume change for the final number, and his face was all red and blotchy but the makeup department had it sorted less than a song later. He strode back on, lounging on a grave beside Porthos – two ghostly figures now side by side again - watching D’Artagnan, Constance and Athos’ characters mourning theirs.

It was a scene of unity. Then the whole stage lit up and they were taking their bows. The ensemble bowed, and then Porthos and Aramis strode to the front. The roar of the crowd was more football match than theatre, and every single person was up on their feet and cheering them. He was weightless, couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. Porthos grabbed him into a bear hug, and the cheering only went up. They went to the back to join the line and bow again, and Aramis would have stayed in that moment forever if he could.

He was still in the moment after they had gone down backstage. They were shouting and dancing and jumping around and so exhausted and not one of them could care less.


	7. Adrenaline and Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and feedback, you're absolutely wonderful!! And thank you to the person who reminded me about Aramis's past, I almost forgot to address it. [[references to self harm]] These characters are not mine.
> 
> Enjoy the penultimate chapter :)

Looking back, he would have no clue what gave him the power to do it. Bravery he had been unable to reach before darted through every cell of his body as he pushed Porthos’ dressing room door open – it was more cupboard than room to be honest - and kissed him. He just kissed him, stepped up and met his lips with his. Adrenaline was roaring through him and he was so elated and scared and so glad he'd found the guts.

After a second’s hesitation Porthos was kissing back, one hand on his back and the other on his neck. It was sweet and feverish and everything he thought it could be. They stopped to breathe and Porthos pushed him back against the wall, kissing with a heat and desperation Aramis thought he could never forget. They pulled away for air and he couldn’t stop smiling, going back in for another kiss. Their bodies were one and Porthos was a mass that was so comfortable by his side and it was like God had carved Aramis out to fit into Porthos’ side. Porthos was intoxicating and wonderful and gorgeous and so obviously wanted him… 

The door opened. He heard it creak but he was drunk on Porthos’ feel and scent and he didn’t give one. He flipped off the person at the door, and Porthos chuckled into the kiss. It was the most gorgeous sound he had ever heard. Gorgeous enough to almost drown out D’Artagnan triumphant cheering at the door, and the sound of coins clinking as Treville collected in his bets. They had a crowd, but he didn’t care. 

Soon enough they had to pull away, slamming the door on the eager crowd. “I heard people are waiting at the stage door. We should meet ‘em.

“Or we could stay here. And do… other things.” He smirked, but Porthos just shoved his shoulder and followed it with a kiss.

“Oh, I plan on doing those things later. Maybe, where things are more private?” God, being wanted by Porthos was the sexiest thing he had ever known.

“I can tell Athos to stay over at Constance’s.”

“He’ll do that?”

“It is his duty as a friend.”

“We should get changed. Don’t wanna keep the crowd waiting…” Porthos pulled off his shirt and Aramis just let himself take him in.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re a masterpiece.” Porthos rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. Then he caught sight of the bruises spread across his side, the still obvious scars where he’d been attacked a million years ago. “Porthos?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t fight. The crowd loved it. We’ll keep selling tickets; keep bringing in money. And I personally will never let you get bored in the evenings. Please, promise me you won’t fight.”

He paused, pulling on a t-shirt and a pair of trainers. “Okay. I promise you, ya idiot. I won’t fight any more.”

He grinned and kissed Porthos till he got shoved away. “I’m gonna go out, maybe sign some things.”

“You could stay.”

“Maybe I don’ trust myself once you take off your shirt.” He grinned and pushed out the door, immediately being attacked by a grinning Constance and D’Artagnan.

They stay at the stage door for a long time, running off adrenaline and disbelief at the enthusiasm of the crowd. Every gushing fan got a hug, a picture, a signature, maybe all three. It was a bubble of energy, with people of every age coming and congratulating him. The play had been so well received; all their hard work had come to something. One girl was so happy when he signed her brochure that she couldn’t talk, and the more he charmed her the redder she got. He shot her a grin and Porthos cuffed him on the back of the neck. Catching sight of the lady from the front row, who was somehow still crying, he jogged over to join her.

“You enjoyed the show.”

“It was heart breaking. Terrible. The best thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m glad we could have such an effect on you.” He glanced across at Porthos and Constance, who were kneeling on the ground and making faces at a laughing toddler. A smile found its way onto his face of its own accord.

“Someone clearly has such an effect on you.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You want some advice? Hold him close. Before you know it you’re a widow who cries over theatre and has fifteen cats.” She shook her head sincerely and walked away, leaving him slightly disbelieving and shaking his head. He caught sight of Porthos again, chuckling to himself at his own infatuation. 

Soon they had dispersed, and it was just the actors and ensemble left. He had barely started to approach Athos before Constance grabbed his arm. “I have you sorted. Athos is staying at mine. Go, have fun.” He grinned and shook her off, slinging an arm around Porthos. Wolf whistles followed then, as well as D’Artagnan’s shouted advice to ‘use protection’. 

On the tube his fingers kept fidgeting. On the walk home they made conversation about their first night, and the future of the play. If it had been a girl, he would have held their hand. London wasn’t always safe to hold hands with the person you loved, though. When they got to the apartment, his fingers fumbled with the lock. That might be because a gorgeous man was kissing his neck with the kind of needy desperation he had dreamed about.

That apartment was bland. But with Porthos in it, it was the best place he could imagine.

Their hearts were beating and the bed was rocking and god it felt so good and so intimate and so amazing and Porthos was so bleeding gorgeous and then it was it and he was climaxing and Porthos’s weight was on him and his breath was on his chest and they were so bare and open and wonderful and he knew every good spot and he could make Porthos dissolve with one touch and then the bed was rocking again and… ohhh. 

He woke up late in the morning on Porthos’s chest. He could feel it rise and fall, see his eyes darting to and fro underneath his eyelids. Taking a second to wake up, he smiled to himself. It was still kind of unreal, waking up next to Porthos Du Vallon. He kissed his neck, and Porthos opened his eyes blearily. He panicked for a split second, his eyes widening and body tensing, before noticing Aramis and grinning.

“'Ello.”

“Hello.” He glanced at the clock. “We have an hour before the meeting with Treville.”

“An hour.” Porthos flipped him suddenly, so he was somehow underneath and Porthos’s weight was on top of him and he could feel him breathing as his lips danced possessively at his neck. “Plenty of time for Round Two.”

It was safe to say, they were very late for the meeting. 

Treville was mid speech by the time they stepped in. “…so every review is incredible, I brought every one I found. You all worked together perfectly, and the crowd’s reaction was incredible. Each and every one of you has worked so hard, and you played each character incredibly. I hope you all rested well, because there are two performances today. I can announce that they are both fully sold out.” They all cheered, and Porthos kicked him with a grin. “Alright, you have a few hours until the show if there’s anything you want to rehearse. And can I ask Aramis and Porthos can refrain from leaving any more marks on each other until your own time.” He shot a pointed look at them as the crowd whistled and laughed, and Aramis could feel himself going as red as Porthos. He traced his finger along his throat and found five patches where the skin was sore.

“You didn’t have to make them quite so obvious.” He hissed as they were leaving. Porthos only grinned in response.

Their early lunch consisted of the five of them sat in a little café, and Aramis spent most of his times ignoring pre show fears and dodging questions about how he had spent the night. D’Artagnan wanted answers about the logistics (sheltered farm boy) while Constance switched from talking about Porthos’ ‘amazing stamina’ (she wasn’t wrong) and asking Porthos if Spaniards were better in bed. Athos just sighed. “I am surrounded by idiots. When are those idiots going to get their own apartment so I can bleach mine?”

The matinee was wonderful. Porthos’ kiss was the highlight, along with the standing ovation of course. He preferred the kiss when they got back to their dressing rooms and Porthos shoved him against the mirror and growled from the back of his throat, but he was willing to take anything he could get. Yet again there was a crowd waiting at the stage door, and they stayed for about an hour trying to talk to them all. 

Then they just tried to eat and drink enough to give themselves energy, and powered through another performance. Each time he was diving a little deeper into Rodier, putting a little more thought into each move. He put himself in the zone, his body doing every move and hitting every note in a wonderful blur until he was taking bows again.

That night he booked them a hotel room (the bed was loud and boy did it creak when they rocked it all night, but it was so worth it), and spent the next morning looking online for apartments they could rent. Flea was to move in with someone called Charon, and now they had a solid amount of money coming in together they could manage rent with some left over.

It was hard to believe how much his life had changed. It was like the craziest type of whirlwind, except Porthos felt so steady by his side. 

The next week went by as a perfect blur of standing ovations and excited fans and great friends and great songs and Porthos Du Vallon.

They found an apartment and visited it. It was small and square but not bad for the centre of London, and Aramis could see it as somewhere pretty beautiful once he got his hands on it. Any room with Porthos in it was pretty beautiful anyway. Then they’d paid the deposit and were shuffling in their meagre belongings and he was a bit breathless from moving so fast but Porthos was too so it was all going to be okay.

He was about to unpack the boxes. Porthos took off his shirt. He never did get round to unpacking those boxes.

He didn’t know what they were, exactly. Every night they shagged was incredible and made him breathless at the memory, and every morning he would wake up enveloped in Porthos, and then hover around the kitchen as he made him breakfast. They would talk about anything and everything; go to the gym, then to work, then it started all over. It definitely wasn’t friendship, but was it a relationship? Every time he asked Porthos made some kind of joke or dodged the question, until he just stopped asking.

They were perfect. But Aramis was scared. He just wanted it so bad. He was obsessed, intoxicated, drunk on Porthos and he didn’t want it to stop. He was magnificent and incredible and creative and mind blowing in and out of the bedroom. He was Porthos Du Vallon and Aramis might just love him. Which was quite possibly one of the scariest things he’d ever had to deal with. Falling in love meant getting hurt, but he was helpless.

One night Porthos caught sight of his wrists. Half faded scars, in a uniform line. His face asked that question, that question he'd been asked all his life. So he talked, for an hour at least. He talked about a boy missing his mother more than anything and not understanding why she was at that bad place his dad wouldn't talk about; he talked about a troubled teenager trying to keep it together with a gorgeous girlfriend that was really into him when he was in love with the captain of the football team. How scary it was trying to work out who you were when you moved house every few months. He talked about the scars he wished would fade, and tried to explain that bad place.

God, it was hard. But it was never easy. Porthos looked at him like he was listening and actually understanding.

Porthos held him tight. They watched a stupid film and Porthos said the scars showed he was a fighter. He lifted his shirt and talked about a guy who attacked him as a kid with a cracked bottle, and Aramis traced his hand over the scars with the saddest smile. 

Porthos's bruises were fading. He promised him every time he asked that no, he wouldn’t fight again. He didn’t need to. He had the thrill of the show and he had Aramis and that was all he needed.

One day they sat on that little balcony with the chipping paint and stared out onto the city. It was cold but Porthos had one arm around him, and they could hear the traffic but up here it was like they were a million miles away. It was simple and the conversation was easy, but he wanted to keep that moment for the rest of his days. 

In another they were sat in a pub pretending they were straight, and kicking each other under the table and racing to drink shots that Athos was somehow paying for. And Aramis couldn’t stop grinning as they toasted their success, as Constance leant her head on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and as they mumbled their way through tipsy speeches.

Their little family was actually okay.

And then they were making breakfast, and Aramis didn’t want to bring it up but he did.

“You have a black eye.”

“You know me. Walked straight into my cupboard. Need to ask Treville about a bigger dressin’ room.” That answer wasn’t satisfying, but he forced a smile and allowed Porthos to grip him tight in a bear hug.

The next day Porthos disappeared, heading out to ‘meet an old friend, don’t wait up’ and not returning that night. Aramis didn’t see himself as the jealous type, but when it happened again with no explanation the next week it set him on edge. “I’ve got to go.”

“You’ve gone, what, six times in the past month.”

“I’m going to help test Flea.”

Aramis looked down. “Let me guess: don’t wait up?”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Porthos.”

He turned, a step away from the door. “Yeah?”

“You’ve quit the fighting ring?"

“I made you a promise, didn’t I?” 

The next day Porthos had a bruise on his ribcage from walking into a table, and reckoned his legs were a bit sore from sitting on a too small chair for a long time. Aramis tried to believe him. Then Porthos locked himself in the kitchen and emerged with the most beautiful meal Aramis had ever tasted, and he forgot it pretty quickly. They didn’t have sex, just settled for watching an old film and talking over it with a beer or four. 

It was actually going pretty well.

 

So it was bound to go wrong.

 

He’d left three missed calls on Porthos’ phone when she answered. His heart skipped a beat. It was stupid really, that his first thought was that Porthos had a girl on the side, but the man was magnificent and irresistible and Aramis was still looking for a flaw and finding none. 

“Hello? I am Nurse Calahan. I’m very sorry, but Mr Du Vallon is asleep so you will not be able to reach him.”

“What are you talking about?” His palms were sweaty and his heart was beating fast and he knew exactly what she was talking about but wished he didn’t.

“Mr Du Vallon is in hospital, with injuries to his ribs and torso. He had a concussion, and is now asleep.”

"What happened?"

"I cannot disclose that information." Dread sat in his throat, the next question hard to choke out.

“Which hospital? I have to see him.”

“He asked me not to disclose that information. He is not taking visitors. Who are you, so I can tell him you called?”

He mumbled his name, heart still racing and a sinking feeling in his stomach. “I’m his,” boyfriend, lover, best friend, the one who sleeps in his bed every night, the one that deserves to see him in hospital… “Friend. I’m his friend.”

The nurse thanked him and hung up. He abandoned the food. He needed air. He couldn’t think, the thoughts were just spinning around his brain too fast to be deciphered and he was so helpless. 

Porthos was still fighting. Of course he was still fighting. Even though he held him tight every night and every time he asked had reassured him that he had made a promise and didn’t break promises.

He called Anne, who agreed to meet him at her place. Louis was out of town, and she let him in and poured them both a drink of something red. “An old friend got me it. Rochefort, his name is. It’s nice stuff. I trust him.”

He poured himself two glasses. She had one. He should have realised, should have seen how the bottle wasn’t sealed, how it smelt wrong and he should have poured it down the sink. But he was confused and lonely and maybe heartbroken and helpless so he kept drinking even when it clouded his brain and made his eyes droop and head spin.

“I’m so damn stupid. I should have known. Going to see an old friend?”

“You trust him, you’re not stupid.” She was kind and he could barely hold back the tears. 

He kept drinking and talking and the lights were changing colours and spinning and could hear his heartbeat and he was so tired. The wine made him happy, so he kept drinking the wine and he could see it making Anne happy too. She was relaxing and giggling and now everything he could see was slanting and he grabbed onto her to keep him still. Everything was so funny suddenly, and he kept drinking.

He didn’t know whose idea it was. He wouldn’t remember for the rest of his days.

Her bed was soft silk and her skin was pale against the dark red and he should have stopped himself but he just drank more wine. She was beautiful, incredible and he helpless and heartbroken. She pulled off his shirt; he pulled off her dress.

He should have run for the hills. He should have tracked Porthos down and held him close, told him they would beat the fighting together. That he forgave him for breaking promise and that he loved him more than anything in the world.

He stayed where he was.

She was so beautiful and Louis treated her so badly and her skin was so soft and so tantalising and the wine was so good and he didn’t stop himself and he should have stopped himself and walked away and salvaged what he had but he didn’t. He didn’t say no. Lord help him. He took off his clothes and kissed her hard and she kissed him back and their bodies were one and he didn’t have the strength to say no to that. Lord please give him the strength. Her husband never truly satisfied her, she was the loneliest woman in London and he was dancing around with someone he didn’t even know loved him back and he was heartbroken and he was helpless and he didn’t say no.

 

Lord help him, he didn’t say no.

Good god, he didn’t say no.


	8. It Takes Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time has arrived for the grand finale. Thank you so much for every single piece of feedback, I really love this community!

They woke up with pounding headaches, the night before a blur. He threw up and threw up again and he wouldn’t stop shaking, and it felt worse than a hangover somehow. Maybe he was still shaking from the knowledge that he just destroyed everything he had ever wanted and finally had. It was probably that.

Hours passed before he could see properly. The mirror reflected a ghost.

Nobody would meet his eyes on the tube.

He went back to the apartment full of good memories and blank space and unopened boxes and an old bed they had broken one night and they had laughed for hours. “Hey. ‘Came outta the hospital this mornin’. I wanted to explain. They were scared of a head injury but I’m good. I’m sorry, ‘Mis. I shouldn’t have lied.” Porthos seemed so beautiful stood there, with a bandage wrapped around his head and bruises creeping along his neck. Every part of him wanted to grab Porthos close and dress every wound. He didn't move.  
“Don’t.” He knew he sounded desperate: he was desperate.  
“What?”  
“Please just let me speak.”  
“I’m sorry I broke my promise ‘Mis, I know I kept on fighting…”  
“I slept with Anne.” He blurted it out and could feel a lump in his throat as Porthos paused and took it in. He forced himself to look Porthos in the eye.  
“Where?”  
“Her and Louis’ apartment.”  
“And it was only last night? You only shagged her once?” Steely anger took up Porthos’s face as he raised a voice like thunder. He actually flinched from the implication.  
“Of course. It was an accident: I was scared and heartbroken and drunk, it doesn’t justify it but you know I wouldn’t cheat if I was in my right mind.”  
Porthos stood up carefully, walking across to a shaky tower of boxes. He swung his hand and they flew across the room. He was powerful, but his movements were controlled and calculated as he knocked over their little coffee table. A mug smashed to the ground. Porthos followed that punch with another one and then a kick until Aramis stood in the eye of a hurricane’s aftermath. All around him with scattered boxes, with some spilling open with pieces of their lives rolling out. He saw a cracked pair of headphones, a camera in its case, a shattered picture frame. Pieces of their lives lying on the floor of an apartment that could have been theirs.

Porthos’s shoulders were heaving and his face was set in stone.  
“You slept with Anne. What were you thinking? She’s married. Does that mean nothing? What about us? Do we mean anything to you?”  
“You are my everything, if you allow it. I don’t even know how you feel about us. You never say anything." He faltered, lowering his hands and forcing himself to relax his shoulders. "I wish I could go back and change it but I can’t, I don’t know what made me do it.” He faltered, his words dying as Porthos met his eye. “Do you want me to leave?”  
“Yeah. ‘Think that would be best.”

He moved back in with Athos. When his friend heard he shook his head. “Why do you always destroy what’s good for you?”  
“I could ask you the same.”

Constance wouldn’t look at him, but d’Artagnan informed him that Porthos was staying with Flea. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so lonely.

Porthos took the week off because of his injuries. His understudy was talented, probably a better dancer and hit every note. But he didn’t command the stage like Porthos did, didn’t seem powerful and unstoppable as he planted his feet and sang quite like Porthos did. The kiss was lifeless and it tore him apart a little more that it wasn’t Porthos by his side each time.

One day later, Athos pulled on his coat and set off to Anne’s house. “Forgive me for disturbing you. Your husband isn’t home?”  
“Please take a seat. He won’t be for the next two weeks at least.”  
“I heard about you and Aramis.” She sat down and buried her head in her hands.  
“How did Porthos take it?”  
“As he could be expected to.”  
There was a shake in her voice when she replied. “Have I ruined everything?”  
He paused, letting the answer to the question go unsaid. “Neither you nor Aramis seem the type to cheat. I wanted to find out more, if that’s okay.”  
She gestured to a bottle of red sticking out of the bin. “We had no more than a bottle between us. And yet I felt as though I was completely out of it.” Athos nodded, plucking the bottle out of the bin and sniffing it. It smelt ever so slightly like chemicals, like weak paint thinner or even nail varnish. “What’s wrong?”  
“Nothing. This may appear a strange request, but may I take this bottle.” She hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously.  
“If you would like, I don’t see the problem.”  
Athos thanked her and began to leave, but she caught his arm. “Please, my husband can’t know.” Athos paused, shaking her off before relenting with a sigh.  
“Porthos is a good man who will not wish to cause you harm. I see no reason why he would tell him.”

Aramis stopped going to the stage door. Spent all the time he could in his dressing room. One day, maybe three or four days after the heartbreak he bumped into Constance after the show. “Aramis. What have you done?”  
“I’ve destroyed everything. I mean, I’ve destroyed Porthos, and he is everything. He was, at least.”  
“I don’t know.” She sighed, leaning against the wall and running her hand over her face. “You broke my best friend’s heart, I’m meant to hate you. And it was with Anne, who I have known for so long. I should hate your guts.”  
“You have every right to, I sure as hell do. How is he? I heard he was staying with Flea. I think if I tried to go near him she’d slice me open.”  
“Quite possibly. He’s heartbroken. He loves you, you know?” His throat caught at the word.  
“He never said it.”  
“He didn’t?” She raised an eyebrow. “Everyone could see it.” He faltered, reaching for the wall to steady him. “I should be telling you to stay away. But he loves you and you clearly love him, so just do what you feel is right. I think he needs you.” She narrowed her eyes then, and her tone became sharper. “You’re my friend Aramis, you’re one of my family, but if you hurt him I will not hesitate to put your head on a spike without a second thought.”

Meanwhile, Athos clutched a piece of paper in his hand. He had cashed in enough favours for an old friend to do a chemical test on the wine, and the answers lay on the piece of paper in his hand. He deliberated for a second, before slipping the little piece of paper in his bag and getting ready for the show.

Two more shows passed, and Aramis found himself knocking on Treville’s door. He was head of the orchestra, and when he wasn’t on his piano he could be found in his little office. “Can I talk to you?”  
“You can try. I’m guessing this is about Porthos.”  
“You know?”  
“I know more than you think.”  
He stood as tall as he could and held his head high. “I would like to hand in my resignation.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I can’t do this anymore, Treville. I’m sorry…”  
“The play needs you.”  
“How can I perform opposite the man I broke the heart of? I’m sorry Treville.”  
He nodded and shuffled his paper, his eyes downcast.  
“This play is as much yours as anyone’s.”  
“I know.” He tried to blink away the tears forming, and stared down at the ground.  
“You’ll have to stay till the end of the month. I’ll try to find you a replacement then.”

He made it till his dressing room to break down and cry.

Nothing could have prepared him for Porthos Du Vallon turning up at the door. Porthos had every right to be there, of course. It was their joint apartment. Aramis had gone there to clean up what he could and was perfectly content to wallow in his own self-pity when Porthos turned up. His key turned in the lock and then he was there, filling the doorway like he had stood in his dressing room to the first time they had kissed, after their first show with electricity in the air and a new kind of hope racing in his veins. It wasn’t that long ago. It felt like a century had passed.

“I made quite a mess, didn’t I?”  
“You had every right to. How, um, are you?”  
“My head’s better. And my ribs are healing: they were only bruised. ‘Got lucky I suppose.” Is it possible to fall in love with a man’s voice all over again?  
“Depends who you ask.” The empty silence stretched on and on. “Howard is playing your understudy.”  
“Good. He’s a good man, and a better dancer than me, I’m certain ‘o that.”  
He chuckled, and nearly met Porthos’ eye. “You’re a better performer. You can command the stage better.”  
“Thanks. I’m back for Wednesday evening. I’ve had ten days off already, I’m starting to go stir crazy. Howard’ll do the matinee though.”  
“Good.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I have till the end of the month, then I’m saying farewell.”  
“Why?” Porthos looked up sharply.  
“I thought it would be best. I didn’t want to make things difficult.”  
“But you’re not difficult. I mean…” He rubbed the back of his neck as he scrambled for words. “You don’t have to leave. You don’t need to feel like you need to leave.”  
“It’s for the best.”  
“Is it?” Porthos took a step closer, his voice growing louder as he took Aramis in. “Is it for the best? Or are you just running away?” He could feel something like tears in his eyes and his heart hammering as he stared at the taller man. Words dried up in his throat. “You accused me of not committing. Then you run off?”  
“I love you.” Then the words were out there and he had no way of taking them back even if he wanted to.  
“God, Aramis.” Porthos dragged a hand over his face, sitting down heavily on the nearest box. “I… I was going to ask you to be my boyfriend as soon as I stopped fighting. The plan was always to quit. I couldn’t date you and lie to you, and I couldn’t tell you I broke my promise. Then you and Anne,” He let himself trail off.  
“Is there any use in telling you I’m sorry?”  
“Nah.”  
“Okay.” They sat in silence, each on the front line of a war in their own heads.

Then something fell through the letterbox, and they both stared at it for a while. It was a blank, coffee stained envelope. Porthos stood up as Aramis did, and then they both sat down again. Then Porthos leant back on the box as Aramis reached for it, and opened it with shaking hands.

‘Athos, I did a test on the wine bottle you sent me. Drug test results: the liquid contains traces of the drug GBL mixed with red wine. This drug can cause euphoria, lack of judgement and confusion.’

The rest blurred together, and he dropped it numbly on the floor. Porthos picked it up with a grunt and scanned it three times before he had taken it in.  
“GBL. Someone tried to spike Flea’s drink with that once. Nasty stuff.” He nodded. “You know what this means?”  
“It means, I think it means that Athos sent off for a test on the red wine me and Anne drank on that night. And it came back as positive.” There was another thick silence, and then a heavy palm was on his shoulder and a weight settled beside him.  
“You were drugged when you slept with her.”

Someone had drugged him. Some evil stranger had made him lose all control and throw away the one thing he held dearest. They had made him lose track of a life that was actually going okay and had burrowed into his mind and spread seeds of doubt because how could he ever trust himself again after what he did?

“I suppose.” He buried his head in his hands, and the palm stayed reassuringly on his shoulder. He leant into the contact. There was another silence, though while the other had been empty this was a silence brimming with things to say and do and an endless amount of opportunities to maybe even make things right.  
“The dickhead that did this… I’m gonna kill him.”  
“Anne said, but I can’t remember. Don’t, please. I was drugged, but that doesn’t absolve me of guilt.”  
Porthos sighed, nudging his shoulder. “When someone offers to forgive you, you let ‘em.”  
His breath caught in his throat. “Is that what you’re offering?”  
He nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I’m offering. ‘s not like I can just forget it, but I’ll try to forgive you. That’s all I can do. And what about me? Forgiving mood?” He chuckled, and Aramis found himself joining in.  
“Just promise me next time you get hurt I can come see you at the hospital.”  
“Sorry ‘bout that. I didn’t want you to see me as a victim, someone you need to look after or ‘fix’.”  
“I wouldn’t. You’re brave and kind and forgiving, and you’re sure as hell not a victim.”

They talked for hours. It takes time to fix something like that.

Then Porthos disappeared and Aramis called in sick the next day. It takes space to fix something like that.

They went on a walk and set out dates in the calendar devoted to only them, taking time to communicate and attempting to explain. It takes effort to fix something like that.

Porthos tells him about his mother dying when he was a kid. Aramis tells him about the brothel, and Porthos tells him about the slum. Aramis tells of the way they always travelled and his complete isolation, and Porthos tells him about cruel people who took advantage of penniless orphans. They hold each other tight that night because no one should have to go through that alone. It takes bravery to fix something like that.

Soon enough their meet ups turn into dates again, kisses on the cheek turn to kisses on the mouth and neck and well… everywhere. They don’t forget, but somehow they forgive. They don’t pick up where they break off, because there’s something too broken to stick together with good intentions and duck tape. They forge a new path, and hold each other tight and somehow learn to whether the storm.

The play moves to Broadway. They get a standing ovation every night and tickets are sold out way into next year. Crowds of fans at the stage door grow and grow until they would have to stay hours to meet everyone. Some nights they do.

On a Tuesday evening, Athos and Porthos walk side by side into a meeting that deals with addictions. Slowly, so slowly, Porthos stops fighting and a new kind of energy comes into Athos they haven’t seen before.

Award shows start coming up and they just can’t stop winning and it’s euphoric every single time. They have to put up with annoying chat show hosts and tabloids and paparazzi, but when he’s being pounded into the wall before he’s even locked the door he knows it was worth it.

Newspapers put a bruised Porthos next to a picture of Aramis talking to a lady at a bar from a few years ago on the front cover and title it, ‘Savage and Slut Star in Broadway Hit’. Constance gets very angry, visits their office and a day later they receive a letter of apology. Porthos sticks the letter and the article on the fridge.

They come out to the world by accident. When they do, the outpouring of love is unimaginable.

The Tony’s come, carrying with them dazzling dresses and sharp suits. They win best musical, and Treville’s speech is the most emotional they’ve ever seen him. Athos, Porthos and Constance win, and Aramis and d’Artagnan are on their feet and applauding louder than anyone in the room. During Porthos’s speech he talks about how his friends are his everything. He meets Aramis’ eyes, and suddenly he knows he’s finally been forgiven.

Constance and d’Artagnan get married. Aramis swears he sees Porthos cry.

One year later and they’re bidding a tearful farewell to the theatre as their contracts run out. Athos and Porthos are going next door to Les Miserables to play Javert and Jean Val Jean respectively. Their confrontation wows critics and they enchant the crowds each and every night. D’Artagnan is talking to Disney about maybe even joining Aladdin, and Constance is spending most of her time looking after her growing bump and training to be a director. Aramis pities everyone that comes in her way.

Aramis gets into TV. It comes naturally, and seemingly nobody can get enough. They buy a bigger apartment and whether the storm of tabloids and rumours and crazed fans and stalkers.

On their fourth anniversary of the day Aramis found the guts in a dressing room, Porthos gets down on one knee and fumbles his way through a proposal. Aramis says yes, of course.

Athos's speech is short, like they expected. Seven words. "All for one, and one for all."


End file.
